Three Times they were Alone for Christmas
by explodedchildren
Summary: ...and the one time they were not. Sherlock and John's Christmases over the three years that Sherlock's away. Johnlock at the end, and very fluffy. I just had to write something for Christmas! So I hope it's not terrible...


**Three Times they were Alone for Christmas**

**-3: Harry's and Herzegovina**

It was the tree that did it. John didn't feel like Christmas, with all its pathetic fuss and family and _friends_ and cheery songs telling you exactly why you should be merry, but Mrs Hudson was insisting on it. Normally, John liked Christmas. Last year...last year it had been good. And his heart had been broken for Molly, with how tactless Sherlock could be, and then for Sherlock, when Irene...didn't die, but never for a second did he stop to think about it breaking on his own behalf. Sherlock kissed Molly. Sherlock..._liked_ Irene...he thought? He couldn't be sure. Of course he couldn't. Still, that was irrelevant now.

Mrs Hudson stumbled up the stairs with her box of decorations, and John sighed and flipped the remote, turning the TV off, vacantly helping her decorate the tree. Tinsel and fairy lights and baubles and an angel: all of it pointless. He was the only one here. No one else was going to see the flat; what was the point in bothering? Nobody cared, least of all John. Stupid holiday.

And worst of all, was that he wasn't working on Christmas. The surgery was shut. Why didn't he work at the hospital – that was open, alive, thriving, and would keep him busy. He wanted nothing more than to be surrounded with danger and action and blood this Christmas, to keep his mind off...him, but didn't ever consider how much danger and action and blood symbolised Sherlock. What did that matter? Sherlock was dead. And on Christmas day at Harry's house, when he opened the jumper from Mrs Hudson, and the mocking deerstalker from Lestrade (because both of them missed him so much, but Greg held on to the memories, while John couldn't bear to recall them), and the mobile phone from his sister, and the toaster from his mum, the only thing crossing John's mind was that Sherlock didn't have anything to open.

**X.x.X**

Nobody alerted Sherlock to the fact that it was Christmas. Well, that wasn't strictly true: Mycroft sent him a text (Bad news. We've found another terrorist group. Herzegovina, I'll have someone tell you the details. Merry Christmas, by the way. John misses you.) but he ignored that, because it made his heart ache to think of John all alone again. That was the only thing keeping him going: John, and the thought of being able to go home to him one day, with the web destroyed and his friends – yes, _friends_ – safe. Only, Sherlock wasn't really sure what home was anymore.

On December 25th, when John was missing Sherlock's wrapping-paper themed experiments and cruel social awkwardness (and downright rudeness, in some cases), Sherlock was in a hotel room directly opposite that of the leader of a small but dangerous part of Moriarty's empire. It snowed. Sherlock liked the snow; it told you a lot about what had happened. But it made him think of home – the time, only last year, when an insufferable group of adolescents who reeked of urine and cheap alcohol had had the audacity to snowball him, which had turned into an entirely mature fight between him and John – and that was never a good thing, because Sherlock had realised what home was to him. John was home. And that meant he might never go home again.

**-2: Burnt Turkey and Sun Burn in Turkey**

Molly's neatly made-up face appeared from around the doorway to the kitchen of Greg's flat, furiously pink. "Um, I'm really sorry, but I think I've set the turkey on fire."

John and Greg both stood at once, following Molly back into the smoke-filled kitchen. Mycroft was stood in a corner, fanning himself with an oven glove in an attempt to breathe. Greg opened the window, and went to unplug the smoke alarm...just as it set off. John instead focused on pulling the oversized turkey out of the oven, while Molly just stood awkwardly in the corner and blushed, muttering half-silent incoherent apologies.

"Don't worry about it, Molly," Greg smiled, surprisingly calm, while Mycroft grimaced at his boyfriend and the pathologist through the thick grey cloud. John coughed loudly, choked trying to hide it, and went to stand by the window in the hope that no one would notice his difficulty in breathing. Mycroft quickly joined him, oven glove still in tow.

"I don't normally do this," Mycroft admitted to John when he could finally breathe properly. "Greg insisted..." he looked fondly at his partner, shaking his head in despair. "And bless her, that woman can't cook. Not that I can. Or Greg..." he trailed off, and John put his hands up in surrender.

"Don't look at me. I'm not going near that oven; whatever's coming out of it would kill me."

Mycroft offered him a tight smile, and mused, "I wonder what Sherlock would do if he were here." Mycroft was hypothesising about that specific situation, whereas John took it as a euphemism for _not dead_.

"He'd probably have Molly in tears, Greg punching him in the face, you bickering with him and me hitting my head against the wall outside." John stared absently out of the window, and then focused on his feet. "God, I miss him," he murmured, more to himself than Mycroft, his voice cracking dismally at the confession.

"I know," Mycroft supplied, along with a sympathetic smile, following John's gaze out of the window and remaining silent until Greg came to ask him how long parsnips took, and if it was okay to cook them in the same tray as the carrots.

**X.x.X**

Mycroft and Sherlock met in a bar in Istanbul on 31st December. Once again, Sherlock didn't know he'd missed Christmas. In addition, he didn't care. He didn't like to keep track of time now, because when what felt like ten years had only been ten minutes, and there were still hundreds of people to...get rid of, there didn't seem to be any point to anything. And that's not the way Sherlock lived his...existence. Because it wasn't a life. Not without John. John had taught him how to live, and how to be human, and now all that was gone, and all he had was instinct, intellect and some shattered painful memories. At least he had them. Nobody could ever take that away from him.

A clock chimed, and there was a countdown in Arabic. Mycroft slid the remainder of the files across the table, the names and records of the people next on his list. Sherlock sighed and nodded wordlessly, finishing his drink and silently ordering another with a demanding click of his fingers. His brother stood and swallowed the rest of his, raising his glass ever so slightly when there was a cheer.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," he said blandly, and then turned away. No. Sherlock wanted to ask about John; wanted to know everything about him. But he knew it was pointless asking: Mycroft wouldn't tell him, as he knew it would make him crazy with homesickness. John _was_ home. Home was _not_ here.

"Not really," Sherlock frowned to himself, though Mycroft heard. It wasn't a happy new year. Nothing was happy and nothing was new. It was just another night full of whiskey turning into another day full of stalking and destroying, utterly bereft of John.

**-1: Completely Finished and Nearly Finished**

"It's been nearly three years, Greg, and it never gets any easier. I don't think I can do this anymore."

The DI fiddled with his pint glass when John spoke, not making eye contact. He looked his friend straight in the eye when he answered him, though.

"I know, John. I know it hurts. If it were Mycroft..." he sighed. "I don't know what Sherlock was to you. And even more than that, I don't know what you were to him. But honestly, I know you were the best thing in his life, and that he loved you, to whatever degree, as much as he was capable of. Nothing I can say is gonna make it hurt less, John. But you saved his life, I can tell you that. The least you can do for him now is save your own."

John stared into his glass. "I can't...I just don't know what to do. I can't, Greg. I've tried, and I can't... I'm supposed to move on. It's not meant to be like this."

Greg sighed. "What are you doing for Christmas?"

John shrugged, finishing his drink. "Nothing. I'll probably go to Harry's again – but she's just got back together with Clara, thank god. So...I don't know."

Greg smiled kindly. "You can come to mine and My's. My sister's coming too, with her kids, so it'll be full."

John nodded his thanks and smiled warmly. "Oh, that's really kind, Greg, but..."

"No buts. It'd be great to have you." He glanced at his watch, adding, "You want another drink? I think I'm going now."

John shook his head, standing and pulling on his coat. "No, I need to get back too. See you later," he smiled gratefully. He wasn't really grateful. He'd really rather spend Christmas on his own, in 221B, without even Mrs Hudson, and forget that it was Christmas and that Sherlock wasn't there, but Greg had been there for him this whole time, and the last thing he wanted to do was be rude.

"You know where our flat is, it'll be about 1 o'clock I think. Depends who's cooking. My sister...can." He grimaced. "I can't. And My..." he grimaced again. "No," was all he said, and then smiled at John. "Happy Christmas."

John smiled. "Thanks. You too. See you next week, then."

**X.x.X**

"Remind me why you're flying back early?" Sherlock asked sceptically, flipping through the list Mycroft had given him. There were literally hundreds of names on it, but only twenty seven weren't crossed off.

"It's Christmas, brother," Mycroft answered incredulously. "I'm flying back early to spend Christmas with Greg. I do believe he's invited John, as well as his family."

"Is John..." Sherlock didn't finish his sentence; didn't know how.

Mycroft cocked his head to the side, raising an eyebrow. "John is coping. Barely." He tapped the list with his index finger, irritating Sherlock to no end. "Twenty seven, Sherlock. And then you can see how John is for yourself."

That brightened Sherlock's outlook on this. Then, he frowned, asking, "What are you going to do if one of them kills _me_? Moran's on this list!"

"You've dealt with the worst already," Mycroft told him. "You'll be fine. If you were to die, we'd pass the list on to the CIA...they've been interested in Moriarty's web for a while, but know nothing about what they'd be dealing with."

"Moriarty," Sherlock breathed emotionlessly. "Have you found him, yet?"

"He's dead, Sherlock. You saw him put a bullet in his brain. He was identified-"

"Bullshit!" Sherlock spat. "I died. You saw me. _You_ identified _me_. He faked his own death, just as I faked mine. He knew I'd find a way around it, and he wouldn't want to miss _that_."

"Just focus on your job, Sherlock," Mycroft advised, venom in his voice. "That's all you have to do. And then you can go home." Home. John. That was worth ignoring Moriarty's very much alive-and-well state for.

"Okay..." Sherlock began, and then resigned himself. "Okay," and he nodded, and Mycroft stood, smiling sadly at his brother.

"Good luck, Sherlock. And Merry Christmas."

**+1: John is Home...and Home means John**

Sherlock had been back for almost three months, and now it was like he'd never been gone away. The only significant changes to the last time he was here was that John now slept in Sherlock's room, and the coffee table had been...broken...when Sherlock returned. His return has been eventful: first there was a gasp from John, then an explanation from Sherlock, then a punch in the face from John, then a hug from Sherlock, then John had sorted out Sherlock's face (he hadn't avoided his nose and teeth that time), and then there were...other things. All in all, Sherlock couldn't be happier to be home. Because home was John, and the place was irrelevant. John, on the other hand, had been home the entire time, but it didn't _feel_ like home without Sherlock there.

"Look!" Sherlock cried happily when John stumbled into the sitting room exactly seven days before Christmas. "Look at the skull!"

Sherlock had dressed it in a Santa hat, as well as threading fairy lights inside it so that its eyes lit up. "Do you like it?" he grinned, and John grinned and shook his head in disbelief.

"Whatever are we going to do with you?" he wondered fondly, and Sherlock smiled and walked over to John, wrapping his arms around his...boyfriend?

"Well," he murmured into John's ear, tickling his throat. "I have a few ideas..."

John counted to five so that he didn't just undress Sherlock right there, and then whispered back, "Afterwards. Tree first."

Sherlock huffed. "Glad to see you have your priorities in order," he scowled, though there was half a smile in his eyes.

John picked up two boxes of lights, asking, "White or coloured?" and Sherlock pointed at the white ones.

"I need the others for the experiment," he explained, and was then hit on the head with his chosen box of fairy lights.

"Come on, then," John said. "The quicker we get this done, the quicker..." he trailed off, and Sherlock grinned wickedly at him, setting to work immediately on untangling all the lights.

"Good point," he murmured, kissing John's neck where he whispered against it, moving onto his lips, and staying there until John moaned and pushed him off, compensating him with a quick peck on the cheek.

"Christmas tree first," John repeated, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, coiling the lights around it until he was dizzy.


End file.
